


Autotomy

by Kalashnikorn



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Loss, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Loss of Limbs, Miscarriage, Post-Canon, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-08-29 08:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalashnikorn/pseuds/Kalashnikorn
Summary: Autotomy is the action of severing a limb or appendage to escape a greater threat. A lizard might snap off its tail to escape a predator, or a certain handcuffed bikie might have to hack through his ankle to escape an explosion. But not all severance needs to be literal; sometimes, you've got to cut off comfortable bad habits, destructive attitudes, and exploitative relationships. It can hurt to let go, but where there's an open wound, there's a place for compassion and healing.This story is told from the perspective of Max's fellow Main Force Patrolman, Roop. As he watches the MFP and civilization crumble, Roop tries to understand the place of violence, vengeance, and hate in the new world order. Seeing what Max's quest for revenge has yielded, Roop begins to question his own methods and revisits a past he's tried to forget.This story takes place immediately after the events of Mad Max (1979).





	1. Transference

Just over the crest of a hill, the collision came into view. But when I laid eyes upon it, the mess was unmistakable: a Transcon truckie’s semi was stopped in the middle of the road; behind it, a crushed heap of metal and a body, mangled but recognizable. All that moved was the fur on his jacket as the wind blew past.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Grinning like an idiot, I whispered under my breath. “The Toecutter.”

Charlie craned his neck to look; just as quickly, he shrunk back into his seat, like a child hiding behind the sofa during a scary movie.

I hit the radio. “Main Force Patrol? I’m on the scene of the collision in sector 27, north of Route 4 and Kennedy. Send a meat truck. I think you’re gonna like this one.”

Charlie stayed back again. Fine, whatever. At least he wouldn’t vomit on the road again.

I stood above the corpse and nudged its head with my boot. From behind the visor of his helmet, I could see his eyes; they’d damn near popped out of his head. He looked like one of those squeeze toys. No sense in stifling my laughter.

Through static, a voice emerged from the radio. “Please report on the status of the victims.”

Charlie started to lift his electrolarynx, but I hustled back to the car.

“The motorcyclist was dead on arrival.” I probably sounded a little too jovial. ”The truckie looks…”

He was standing in the grass, doubled over, holding his head. That counts for something, I guess.

“He’s alive. Appears to be in stable condition. Still send the ambos, have ‘em check him out.”

Strolling over to the driver, I called out to him, “You got nothin’ to feel bad about, man. Couldn’t have hit someone better, really.” I said with a chuckle. “That was the Toecutter, the leader of one of-”

He sat on the pavement, hunched over, red faced, and crying like a baby. I don’t particularly like crying people. Never know what to do with ‘em. And what I said didn’t mean a damn thing to him.

Let’s try something different. “The damage to your truck seems relatively min-“

“It’s not about _the goddamn truck._ ” His voice cracked. A thick, calloused palm wiped away tears. “He just popped over the hill, I couldn’t stop-” The sour stench of vomit laced his breath. The old man just wouldn’t stop shaking, and his snot-filled sobbing churned my stomach. “I just… He just… Went under the wheels. I felt his body when it-”

I was running out of shit to say. “I felt real bad when I hit a dingo once.”

He looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive. _Listen, it’s not my fault you're a soft bitch,_ yep, that’s what I wanted to say.

“That’s somebody’s kid, man!” He was shaking, fighting for breath between sobs.

What an obvious thing to say. It was a fact; everyone was someone’s kid.

Thinking back to my first kill, I couldn’t have been further from tears. No, I felt my pulse pounding through my whole body; it was like lightning was coursing through my veins. I was invincible. I was unstoppable. It was like the scales had been cast off, and I was seeing the world clearly for the first time. My eyes had been opened to how I, of all people, could take control; how I could contribute. And when it stopped, I couldn’t wait to feel it again.

But my first time killing a man wasn’t my first time seeing death. I know what you suspect, but no. Let me lay that to rest. I wasn’t the kid that pulled the wings off butterflies or the boy that yanked the cat’s tail just to hear her scream. No, I used to be a soft bitch, too. I was the four-year-old kid that was on his knees, a sobbing mess, when his dad shot a roo that was raiding the wheat fields. He brought it to us wrapped in an old blue blanket.

I still remember collapsing in front of that boomer’s empty eyes and slack-jawed face, trying so hard to keep my eyes away from the hole through his neck. Mum scooped me off the straw-covered ground; Dad was cussing, calling me a disgrace, calling me a “fucking idiot child.”

Throughout the chaos, she held me tight to her chest and swayed gently, patting my back all the while. I buried my face into the side of her neck, wanting nothing more than to disappear; to get away from the yelling, the criticism, the disappointment that I was. Resting my cheek against her soft skin, I could almost feel the bullet hole boring through _my_ neck, and I could imagine the terror and confusion that kangaroo must’ve felt.

“ _He was only trying to eat_ ,” I must’ve said it a million times.

“What the hell kind of a man is he going to be?” I flinched every time he shouted at us. “ _You made him soft!_ ”

Mum took so many photos of me at that age. Too many were on the mantle. I hated seeing pictures of myself back when I was a disgrace.

And now here’s this bloke, crying. I had no words. I could only offer my hand in support. _That was somebody’s kid._ His words replayed in my head. It was so obvious, although I had never cared to entertain the thought, let alone allow it to guilt me. But his words were like battery acid etching into metal.

The old truckie was still trying to collect himself. Forcing a hard swallow, he gestured to bikie, then to the road ahead.

“A black car chased him into me. Looked like one of yours, with the badge and everything. Had a blower on the bonnet, though.” He shook his head. “He didn’t even bother to stop.”

I bit my lip.

Gesturing back to the Toecutter, he continued, “I tried blaring the horn, but he was looking back over his shoulder.” He bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, “ _There was just nowhere to go, no time to stop._ ”

Silence passed between the two of us. Breathing deep, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I wanna tell his family that I’m sorry.”

All I could do was nod.

From this day on, that poor bloke is going to know what it feels like to crush a human body beneath his wheels. He didn’t ask for this. And he’s going to know that a Main Force Patrolman caused it all to happen. I told the truckie that I was sorry; he just nodded. I’m not _sorry_ in the sense that I’ve done anything wrong. Any guilt should belong to our resident Code 3 Red Alert, Rockatansky. He brought this upon a civilian. You can kill scags without ruining everybody else’s life.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a longtime Mad Max fan (pre-Fury Road) and I've roleplayed as the character Roop since the fandom had a resurgence in 2015. The story of Autotomy takes place immediately after the events of Mad Max (1979). I'm excited to share this story with you, and I'd love to hear what you think! 
> 
> If you enjoyed it, kudos are appreciated, and I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Let me know what you liked and what you didn't, and what stood out to you. Thank you for reading!


	2. Little Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roop's memories clash with his present reality when he learns the fate of an old friend.

Our next call was a half-hour south of the old truckie’s collision. As soon as I saw the birds were circling overhead, I knew we must’ve been getting close. But the reality only set in once I saw his body on the ground, clad in black, still donning his silver helmet.

My heart sunk. This time, I told Charlie to stay back. He began to lift his electrolarynx, but before he could buzz out a single word, I slammed the door. He resigned himself to fidgeting with the radio.

It’s not often that I walk slowly on purpose. But there I was, trying to buy a few seconds before I had to face this particular death. The ravens stopped their pecking to watch my movements; they fled as I approached.

Lying on the ground, he looked so small. By the way his jacket was shredded, it looked like pellets from a shotgun had ripped through his chest. Though I’d seen men killed in far worse ways, seeing _him_ in this state made the bile rise in my throat. The pool of blood beneath him spread far across the hot bitumen; it was already drying as the sun beat down. I set my sunglasses on my head and knelt down beside the body. When we chatted outside the Halls of Justice, I didn’t think it would be the last time we’d speak.

That day seemed normal enough. I’d just driven Fifi and Max back to the station, and those arseholes from the People’s Observer were tagging along behind us. Before I could head in, the bossman ordered me to wait outside.

Just outside the gate, I spotted some goddamn kids bouncing on the carcass of some lair’s gaudy Chevy Impala. A man in black stood off to the side. Without a second thought, I ran up to them, waving my arms like I was chasing crows away from the corn.

“Get off the car, will ya? That’s police evidence!”

One of ‘em flipped me off, but they all ran - except for the man in black. He turned to face me. I knew his voice immediately.

“Barely 18 and already an old man.” I felt the sting of disappointment in his eyes. “That’s what the badge does.”

He remembered my age. We had served together for less than a year, but in that time, we were the ones who kept each other company during those long nights at the Sugartown Cabaret. He never paid much heed to the dancers, but in those dark corners of that smoky bar, I had some of the best conversations of my life. Names like Marx, Foucault, Kierkegaard, Derrida, and DuBois flowed freely from his lips, but without pretention; he spoke like they were friends. I followed along as best I could; sometimes he’d use saltshakers, cups, and straws as props. Through the wee morning hours, I learned about alienation from labor and what it meant to have a double consciousness. And like clockwork, every week, he’d bring me a book from his shelf. I read them as best I could; he’d always ask my opinion afterwards. At first, that made me nervous – I didn’t want to have the wrong answers. But no matter how lost I was, he gave thoughtful consideration to everything I said, and never once did he hassle me for getting orange juice instead of beer. I looked forward to our little talks every week, until one day, budgets were cut. Sectors were rezoned. And he didn’t show up to work. I kept bringing the last book he lent me in hopes of returning it to him.

“Bubba Zanetti?” I tilted my head, smiling. I barely recognized him with his hair bleached.

“Rafael Navarro.” He said my name like he was reminding me.

There was a glint in his eye, as though he’d put me in check. “Are you one of _them,_ yet?” He turned his face, as though he was trying to show me the Phi beside his ear.

It turned my stomach to see him marked; my gaze dropped as I digested the implications of it all. Yes, I tried going to the Sugartown Cabaret with them; I sat alone. When I spoke with my brothers-in-arms, I was the one asked questions; at best, I was the sounding board. I was the kid that didn’t drink and lived with his mum; I wasn’t someone with opinions worth considering, or stories worth hearing. And I knew what that meant.

I wanted nothing more than an excuse to step out. Taking a few steps back and pointing back to the station, I said, “Hey, I still have your book. I can run in and grab it if y-" 

“Keep the book,” he cut me off, “You need it more than I.”

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

Now, there’s so much I’d give just to have one of those late-night barroom talks with him again. With a gloved hand, I flipped up his visor. At first, I questioned if it was even Bubba; I had never seen his face held soft. But in his eyes, he had that same half-lidded look of disappointment. This time, there was no spark – just emptiness.

Heat was building up on my back. I looked to the sky and forced a deep breath. Removing my gloves, I pressed my fingers to his neck; there wasn’t the faintest hint of a pulse. I tried his wrist, too - nothing. Yet his eyes still seemed to stare up at me. With one hand, I stabilized his head; with the other, I closed his eyes. He was still warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Thank you for reading!


	3. Restructuring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifi and Roop mourn their respective losses, while Roop contemplates how narrow the line is between the bronze and the bikies.

The nightly chill had begun to fill the air, even the ravens had dispersed to parts unknown. The sun had dipped below the horizon; all it left was a hazy red cast seeping through the clouds. But I stayed beside Bubba until the ambos carted him off in a zippered bag; I watched as they loaded him like cargo. Without sirens, they departed.

Fifi’s eyes were locked on the ground. In the evening light, the bloodstained bitumen looked pitch black, a void in the earth. He paced back and forth around the flipped bike, chomping on the last wet, papery nubbin of a cigar. It was the old man’s pacifier of choice. Only once did he stop, and in that moment of silence, he rubbed his head and visually traced a matted trail of grass, headed east. I wanted to mention the set of tire marks on the ground, pointing off in the direction of the Toecutter’s accident, but I know when I shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.

“Damn shame.” He said to no one in particular, “Thought he was a smarter kid than that.”

Bossman wasn’t looking at me. He shook his head and let the smoke drift from his lips.

“Threw his life away. And for what?” He flicked the cigar to the ground and stomped it out. “He could’ve made a difference. He could’ve been a hero.”

“Yeah.” The words slipped from my mouth.

Bubba _could’ve_ been so much more. He knew it, too, and I saw it every time he lit up talking about history’s greatest thinkers. And he didn’t just prattle on – he cared what I thought. He listened. Most days, we chatted over lunch – he didn’t bag on me for bringing food from home. No jokes were made about how much I ate, or the not-fast-food scents of Basque home cooking. It’s small, I know - but I noticed. I always wanted to go to college, and he was what I imagined a good professor to be like. I never thought someone like that would join the Armalites, either.

But by the stroke of some bureaucrat’s pen, budgets were cut. Sectors were rezoned. Areas of “least priority” – places too far from the main truck routes – were all but abandoned by law enforcement. Commissioner Labatouche explained it all in a darkened conference room, lit only by the slide projector that cast words on his face. Bubba sat beside me, steely-eyed, interrogating every word that fell from the old man’s mouth. That pencil pusher had a way of dressing his words – disguising them, really – and Bubba saw right through it. Labatouche spoke of “synergy” and “shifting paradigms,” of “best practices” and “streamlining.” Whenever the Commissioner hung on a phrase, I’d look to Bubba. If he’d narrow his eyes, I knew that Labatouche was spouting bullshit. But my friend’s face fell when the rezoned maps flashed onto the screen. The place he lived – the place his whole family lived – had just been cut from Sector 23. It would no longer be under the watch of the MFP.

That night, our conversation at the Sugartown Cabaret was somber. The “restructuring” gave him the impression that his life – and his family’s lives – held less value than the truckloads of frozen meat patties and lawn furniture the MFP saw fit to protect. Why risk his life to defend an ever-narrowing strip of roads and “economically productive” cities while his own hometown fell to gang rule? We’d seen it ourselves – every marked Armalite kills a cop as part of his pledge. And above all else, they were known to retaliate against civilians and the police alike for the slightest infractions. There was no good option; he cut us out to keep himself alive. I can’t say I blame him.

“He threw it all away.” Fifi grumbled, stroking his mustache, “He had it all. A wife, a kid, a house on the beach…”

 _Oh._ I should have known he was mourning Max. Bubba was dead to him as soon as he stopped showing up for work.

“You know, he hasn’t even visited Jess in the ICU?”

I blinked in confusion. “Wait, what? Jessie’s in hospital?”

“Yeah. St. George’s ICU.” With an oddly defensive tone, he continued, “I had to hear it through the grapevine. Word is, Max went Code 3 ‘cause something happened to her and the kid. He didn’t say a damn thing to _me_ about any of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is written from Roop’s perspective. He knows nothing about Jessie’s encounter with Toecutter at the beach or Cundalini losing a hand to Jessie’s car. He assumes that the Armalite attack on Jessie and Sprog was retribution for the death of the Nightrider and the mistreatment of Johnny.
> 
> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Thank you for reading!


	4. Undevoured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Roop sees who Max left behind, he begins to question the use of violence as a solution to all problems.

I’ve never been to St. George’s Hospital on account of something good. I know that lives are saved here, and that lives begin here; all I see are the lights turned way down low to save energy, and the black of the night tarnished by grimy windows. If it weren’t for the beeps and gasps and footsteps, this place would seem abandoned.

As I rounded the corner, I laid eyes on Jessie. She was in bed, flat on her back, eyes closed. Tubes and wires formed a web around her, and it seemed that the entirety of her right arm was missing. Standing at the foot of her bed, I did a little wave, even though I knew she couldn’t see me.  


“Hi, Jessie.” I said under my breath. From the very pit of my stomach, it felt wrong.  


All that greeted me was a series of rhythmic beeps and the gentle huff of a respirator. Aside from her swollen face, she looked like a bandaged husk kept inflated by yellowing plastic machines and screens with numbers. I took a seat beside her, tucking away my arms and legs, terrified that I’d yank some vital thing that kept her alive.  


“Just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.” This felt so stupid, so corny. I glanced around, just to make sure no one was within earshot. She was silent, save for her breath. One stump of a limb stirred beneath the blankets, and with unfocused eyes, she tried to meet my gaze. Her mouth hung open and her vocal chords strained, trying to form words.  


I forced a smile and let my hand rest upon hers.  


She smiled back until she blinked through the sleep in her eyes.  


“Where’s… Max?” She asked.

Oh, shit.  


“I… We don’t know.” It was true. Code 3 Red Alert.  


“…Find him?”  


I nodded. That’s not my place to decide.  


He didn’t want to be found. He’d moved beyond the rule of society, into the realm of playing god, choosing who lives and dies; who pays for their sin, and how. I know. I’ve done it. It’s a rush, and you tell yourself it’s good, because _they’re bad_ and _you’re good_ , and you go in circles for days with that. Years, even.  


We can tell ourselves that we do it for justice, which is a farce. I used to think justice was a really nice word, a nice coat of paint to throw on what I was doing.

It’s a state-sponsored pipeline that let me turn my fear into anger into violence into praise. Shoot some guy because he reached into his coat? Justice. But everyone still reaches into their coat, and all that’s changed is a family with one empty seat at the dinner table. But for a moment I got to feel like a god. I bet Max did too. Maybe he still does. Then it wears off, and you realize what kind of power you _really_ have. One day you’re the mighty hand of vengeance sent to strike down the unworthy, but when it’s time to lift someone up, you find out you can’t do shit. You can't raise the dead, you can only make more of them. So you strike, and you strike, and you strike, but everything gets worse and you don’t know why. You’re worse than helpless.  


It’s been said that the amount of pain in the world will always outweigh the pleasure; that the pleasure gained by the devourer is nothing compared to the agony of the devoured. And that’s to say nothing of the undevoured left behind, who suffer unseen. They’re the ones who come out scathed but alive; alive but not living.  


“Hasn’t… Called?” Her lips hung open and quivered.  


I shook my head _no._ It seemed softer that way. _  
_

“Why’d he leave..?”

“…Revenge.” I don’t lie. She'll see it on the news. “He killed the men who hurt you.”

And with that, she slid down into her bed, turning away from me and returning to her pain. Waiting in silence helped neither of us. As I left, I stopped to take one look back at her - alone in the world, save for the people paid to keep her alive. They were chattering behind me.

“Poor girl. She asks the same questions every time.”

“What do you tell her?”

Silence, followed by a huff.

“Rotten deadbeat husband. Hasn’t called, hasn’t visited.”

I’d never heard someone speak that way about Max. This wasn’t my conversation; I stood slack-jawed and fought the impulse to defend him. But the fact was, I didn’t know the man, I just liked him. He was easy to like. He showed me that you could mix peanut butter and honey.  


By all measures, Max was a better person than me. Sometimes, he used to let the ambos poke a needle in his arm, the way the yanks tap a maple tree for sap. And he’d sit there and give it up, smiling, chatting, squeezing the red ball they gave him. I could’ve done it, too, but I kept quiet about it. Didn’t want my blood to end up in the veins of some scag. But he didn’t care where it ended up, just that it helped someone. That’s the Max I thought I knew.

Back then, it used to hurt when Fifi would say, “You’ll never be like Rockatansky.”

Nowadays, I’m hoping to prove him right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Thank you for reading!


	5. One of Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a traumatic day, Roop breaks down in front of his mother. She brings up some old memories that could change his life and outlook forever.

When I got home that night, Mum asked about my day; I hugged her a little longer than usual, a little tighter. I can’t bear the thought of leaving everyone I know and love. Not for power, not for vengeance, not for justice. If I had to choose between justice and my mum, I’d choose my mum.

When I pulled away, she reached up to cradle my face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

I looked past her and shook my head. Hold it in; you’re her happiness. Don’t let her know. _Don’t be a burden_.

But the feelings came crashing through, relentless as the tide against the rocks. No matter how hard I tried to be One of Them, I wasn’t a man that could handle seeing his old friend splayed out across the bitumen and dismiss it as a quirk of fate. I wasn’t the kind of man who could go home and fuck his wife after that. I don’t even have a wife, and if I did, I wouldn’t wanna leave her for revenge. The rest of Them are right - I’m not man enough for this job. I don’t think I want to be.

Looking past her, I broke and told her about the truckie and someone’s kid. I told her about Bubba, and Jessie, alone except for the machines that breathe for her; about Rockatansky and all he threw away. She touched my arm; her warmth seeped into my skin. And I became the crying person. In front of her, there were no pretenses. No _being a man_ to keep up my image. From day one, she’d seen me and loved me through the most vulnerable times in my life; this was no exception. I was lost in a rush of fear and insecurity and anger and regret all crashing down at once and spilling everywhere.

She knew to hold me; she knew not to say _don’t cry_. Mum has always been the opposite of dad, and for that I’m eternally grateful. Even their blood types didn’t want to mix; mum’s O- and dad’s A+ clashed, and left their first six pregnancies miscarried. He blamed her for it; he said she was killing his children. Then I was born with O- blood like hers. And he blamed her for it; from every cell in my body, I was too much like her. No matter what I did, they fought. I blamed myself.

“Mum?” I couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Her calloused hand took mine. “I understand.”

“No, no, you don’t. I’m sorry, you don’t.” I had to take a deep breath before I let it all come spilling out. “I’ve done shit – some real bad shit. I was scared, I though I could fix things. I thought I was protecting us. I thought it was a good idea.”

She furrowed her brow. I knew I’d said too much.

But I just kept barreling through. “But I didn’t know what I was doing, and if I keep this shit up… I’m gonna end up like Max. I’m gonna get us all killed.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. “I was drunk on power. And I fucking liked it.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see her blinking. Unadulterated, awkward silence smoldered beneath the surface.

“Rafael, all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

My heart sunk. I have failed her by feeling something other than joy.

“I don’t even know what I enjoy anymore.”

“It sounds to me like you _enjoy_ power.” When she said that, I shuddered at how dreadful it sounded. But she continued, “…We need to find you another position where you have power.”

I shook my head. “I’m the tiger that’s tasted human blood. They get a taste, you know? And they can never go back.” I took a moment wallow in the implications of that.

“You know… You can find _other_ ways to express power.”

_What does that even mean?_

“Remember that time we went to Aunt Barb’s for Christmas?” Mum asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s where you got Tiny Tim!” She said it like it should’ve rung a bell in my mind.

“What does he have to do with any of this? 

She laughed. “She tore her kitchen apart over that mouse!”

“Yeah,” I shook my head; couldn’t help but crack a smile. Even though she had a dozen cats, her house was infested with mice. “It was like Armageddon over there, like nuclear launch codes fell into the hands of enemy spies.”

“I swear she’d downed three glasses of wine before lunch.” Mum said, snickering. “She had snap traps everywhere. I was terrified you were gonna lose a finger.”

“See, that’s the part that I remember the most. Just… Death everywhere.” I couldn’t tell you a damn thing about what I got for Christmas. “All the mice in the traps.”

She smiled. “Except for one.”

“Yeah. That was Tim; poor lil’ guy. Chewed through his ankle to escape.”

I can still see the dried, brown blood soaked into the wooden trap and the crumpled little foot caught within it.

“And you’re the one who found him.” She had my hand, but I still couldn’t follow. “Nothing was stopping you from handing him over to Barb - but you _didn’t_.” She paused. The words sunk in. “Why?”

When I found Tiny Tim, it was the first time I ever remember lying. I really sold it to Aunt Barb, made up some bullshit about feeling sick and throwing up, and that I needed mum’s help. And as soon as I was alone with mum, I showed her what I’d found. From my pocket, I took out a slick, shivering gray bean that bled; it had a limp tail thinner than spaghetti, half-lidded eyes that blinked in a daze, and heartbeat I could feel on my palm. And yeah, he chewed through walls. He ate garbage. But to little me, he was a fellow traveler fighting against the odds in an unfair world; to me, his life held value, no matter what anyone said or thought.

And though he didn’t know it, he repaid me tenfold. It was more than the simple joy of watching him shuck sunflower seeds. With every lopsided step on his wheel, he showed me a life damaged but not broken, a survivor in the face of pain, fear, and uncertainty. He learned to trust and eat from my hand; I felt I was forgiven for the cruelty of my kind.

“I couldn’t let that kind of willpower die in vain.” I rubbed my eyes.

“That’s right. And you didn’t let that happen. You gave him a good life.” She fought to make eye contact, and I relented. “See? That’s power, too.”

Through red, puffy eyes and a runny nose, I smiled.

I could have left him. I could have crushed his body in my fist. I could have been praised for catching the one that got away. But I _didn’t._ I saw a chance to make things better, to tip the scales away from suffering.

“Great, I’ll find all the three-legged mice in Australia.” I said, chuckling. But I knew she was right. I didn't have to find power in putting someone down; there's strength in lifting others up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Thank you for reading!


	6. We are (not) vermin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roop finds the scene of Johnny's incident - but not Johnny.

The next morning at work, we were called to investigate a reported explosion in sector 28. The acrid stench of burning plastic and scorched metal hit me before I ever saw the wreckage. though it crossed my mind that this might’ve been a trap to lure a couple of Bronze out into the open so some kid could earn his Phi, we aren’t paid a dollar above minimum wage to be cowards. Charlie doesn’t seem to get that; even when I tried to drag him out, he kept his dumb arse planted. 

By the time I got to the site of the explosion, the overturned truck had nearly burned itself out. Yet when the wind picked up, it belched black smoke; the kind that stung your eyes, stuck to your skin, and left your lips tasting like iron. And as I approached, the scent of smoldering flesh and singed hair joined the brew of noxious chemicals that seeped into my lungs.

As I circled around the flipped truck, I stepped on something rounded. A pipe? No, it was the handle of a hacksaw. I bent down to inspect it; the blade was covered in burned-on bits of something fibrous, grease, and flecks of white. As I knelt, the smell of burned flesh grew stronger. Nestled in the grass, I saw why - a charred, severed human foot. Beside it, a pair of handcuffs, blackened by heat and burnt-on blood. With gloved hands, I picked up the cuffs for a closer look. They had three rings instead of the standard two - that’s right, they’re MFP cuffs. This must’ve been the work of our friendly neighborhood heartbroken renegade.

Not five paces away, there was a smoldering body, face down in the grass. _Poor bastard. Hacked through his ankle just to get blown up anyway._ At least, that’s what I thought until I took a closer look. That burned corpse had _two_ feet. And yet there was one severed foot, sawed off, trapped by MFP cuffs.

There was a time that this would’ve made me laugh. Today, it just turned my stomach. No, it wasn’t the smell. It was Max’s hunger for revenge consuming everything else in his life. It was Jessie, lying alone in cold empty room, wondering when her husband was coming back. And God only knows the fate of Sprog, be it crying alone in some darkened hospital room or festering in the basement of the morgue. It was a life abandoned for the fleeting pleasure of making others suffer.

Now, someone out there is living – or dying – from being forced to make a life-or-limb decision. As it stands, I’m helpless to do anything for them _or_ Max; that kind of uselessness is what burns me alive from the inside. It’s what drove me to fight blindly, to hate blindly, and you know what? I think it drove Max to do those things, too. This disembodied scorched foot on the ground; forcing someone to make that decision must’ve made Max feel like he got his bollocks back. But until bollocks can give Jessie her arm back and fix her brain bleeding, what’s the point?

There was a time that I would have dismissed Max's victim as vermin that exists to be eradicated, because you know what? It’s convenient. It’s easy to say, “We’re all vermin.” It’s comforting in its simplicity, in how it gives us permission to step on the necks of anyone who gets in our way. So we sink lower, because we’re driven by that lizard-brain instinct to keep breathing, to strike at anything that catches our ire. And it’s dangerous because no one who says it _really_ believes that every single one of us is vermin, is scum. We know our intentions, we know our lives, and it just so happens that we can always see ourselves as the least-verminous of them all. I kill to protect my family and myself; _they_ kill because they’re monsters. See? It’s exactly what I’ve been doing the whole time I’ve been wearing the badge; it’s exactly what I can’t live with doing any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Thank you for reading!


	7. Maintain Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roop makes a key decision about his future, much to the chagrin of his boss, Captain Fifi MacAffee.

I used to dread climbing the narrow, winding staircase to get to Fifi’s office. It wasn't the climb itself, it was because the power resided with _him._ It was always the same: I was the fuck up, the embarrassment; the guy that drove into the van (I swear to God it didn’t have its indicator on). And he’d drop the hammer on me. But this day was different; I had been looking forward to this walk all day, without fear, without hesitation. This had been a long time coming, and I knew who held the power.

With every step, the bombastic music grew louder, like there was a parade in that moist pocket dimension of stale cigar smoke and potted plants. From the top of his watchtower, we all looked like insects. What a luxury it must be to lose touch with the ground and everyone on it, to have fantasies about heroes and justice and public relations.

But I knew I wasn’t going to get away without a fight. You don’t quit the MFP, not on Fifi’s watch. You stop showing up, or you’re put in the ground, or you go Code 3, I guess. I never questioned _why_ no one quit, but it first occurred to me a few months ago, when I spent an awkward thirty minutes just outside the bossman’s door. All I wanted was some clarification as to how I should word my report about a fatal officer-involved shooting; what I got was a front row seat to a miserable shitshow.

It was simple enough: Charlie wanted out. Always one to play by the book, he handed in his resignation; he probably laminated it and everything.

Fifi started out calm enough.“ Charlie, you’ve been given this opportunity to do some good for the world. Don’t you want that?”

“I do, sir.” Reticence laced Charlie’s voice. “I think I could, maybe… Better do that elsewhere.”

“How else could _you_ possibly make a difference?”

From behind the door, the only words I could discern were _seminary school._

“Do you think God would want you to cower behind a pulpit while innocent people get slaughtered? Raped? Terrorized?” A second of nothingness passed. “You should be proud of what you did.”

Silence, like when a bomb falls; the loaded seconds between normalcy and death raining from the sky.

“I’m not,” a quiet voice responded. “He didn’t even have a gun.”

“Well that’s not what the news is gonna say! And as far as the paperwork’s concerned, everything’s clean. You defended yourself.”

“I don’t care about th-”

“You don’t care about opposing evil?”

“Sir, I didn’t say tha-”

A deafening thud rattled the walls. “Evil triumphs when good men do nothing!” Captain MacAffee’s voice must’ve damn near made Charlie deaf.

The door was ripped away from me; head down and face flushed, Charlie hurried out. I don’t think he even noticed I was there. Rapid-fire footsteps rushed down the stairs; Fifi stormed after him.

“If you want to be selfish, McKidd, that’s on you!” Fifi called out, his voice echoing down the staircase.

But what Fifi said had the right mixture of fuel and oil to keep Charlie on the road, and look where _that_ got him. Look where _I_ got him. And now, he’s going to pull this line of logic on me. It won’t be about God, no. It’ll be the fruit of whatever attention he’s paid to me, but I’ve already resolved myself: I won’t bite.

Today is my turn. When I got up the stairs, my eyes locked on to my opponent: a bald old man, shirtless and wearing a goddamn scarf. Taking a step forward, I thumped my head on the doorframe.

“What is it, Roop?” He didn’t even have to look up to know it was me.

Like slopping the hogs, I slapped two pieces of paper on the desk in front of him – the report on the sector 28 explosion, and my resignation.

Brows furrowed, he peeled it off and gave it a glance. “Is this your idea of a joke, Roop?” If it was, it fell flat.

I said nothing. _Nothing_ has served me well in the past.

“So you wanna go back to being a nobody?” He didn’t bother to raise his voice. 

“I’ve never been a nobody.” It’s true. There were times when I didn’t serve an agenda or get a paycheck. I was still someone with value.

The way he blinked, I could almost see the gears shifting in his head. “Think about the world you wanna live in, Roop. There’s really nothing in between. For someone like you… You’re not going to sit on the sidelines. You’re either gonna be one of us, or one of them.”

My eyes narrowed. _That’s really all you think I can be?_ But I caught myself – I promised myself I wasn’t going to play into his hand. He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t give a shit about me. That was bait. And if I didn’t bite, he’d try something else.

Sure enough, he resorted to using everyone’s favorite standby, guilt. “Charlie’s got no voice, Sarse and Scuttle are on sick leave. Concannon and Goose are dead, Max’s gone Code 3, and now you?” He slammed his fist to the wall. I didn’t flinch. “What the hell are we supposed to do w-.”

“You’ll pull names from a hat. Like always.”

They’ll be the names of poor boys who aren’t married, who aren’t doctors, who aren’t in college. They’ll be scared, they’ll be angry, they’ll be hungry for approval, for power. And they’ll become Good Men of the Law. Like I used to be.

He scoffed. “Now _really_ think about this, Roop. What side of the law do you want to be on? ‘Cause there are only two sides, and I don’t think you’re looking out for your best interests.” 

Back to the false dichotomy and paper-thin veil of concern. Maybe he saw me roll my eyes. Let me tell you something I’ve come to learn about binaries – and the people who insist upon assigning everyone into a neat, convenient box. Because once I took a closer look, I saw that things – and especially people – don’t fall into simple categories. Saints and sinners, Bronze and bikies - life isn’t black and white, or even shades of gray. There’s a whole spectrum of colors, just as there’s more than good and evil. There’s the need to fit in; the need to feel useful. There’s being born on the wrong side of the tracks. There’s being the dutiful son that wants to protect the people you love, no matter what. There’s being the overachiever who wants to go to art school, but getting a letter in the mail that tells you that the state needs you to report for duty at your local Main Force Patrol office. And all it can take is a thin black line to separate us from everyone else just trying to eat, just trying to carve out an existence in the grasp of a choking, desperate Central Bureaucracy.

Those little boxes that divide us, they're not for our benefit; they're for the ones pulling the strings, the one who hold the cards, who hold the chains. It’s for pitting people against one another, when they may be more alike than they realize; for pitting them against one another so they never band together and tear down the machine that’s fueled by our collective blood, sweat, and fears. So when someone tells you that you can be A or B, 1 or 2, it’s probably a goddamn dirty fucking lie, even if the liar doesn't know it. It’s a lie woven into the fabric of our minds, of our society, and we internalize it before we’re old enough to ask questions. And before we know it, we're marching along, never questioning the idea that creating more pain will heal our own.

“I _am_ looking out for my best interests.” I flicked the plaque on my badge that said _Maintain Right._ “I’ve seen what happens to the ones that stay. They end up dead inside, dead outside, and the real persistent ones drag everyone along with ‘em.”

Fifi looked at me like I asked him about the sound of one hand clapping.

I could clarify my statement further. “What happens here is bullshit, Fifi.”

He blinked. I don’t think he hears that often enough.

“That’s a damn shame, you feel that way, Roop.” He went back to idly fidgeting with his plants. “I thought you had potential.”

Supposedly, this is the part where I’m supposed to beg for his approval.

Fifi sighed. “I thought you had the balls to take control of your destiny.”

“I do.”

I turned and walked out. Silence followed, at least for a moment.

“Roop, get back here!” His voice echoed down the staircase. My steps were louder.

“Roop?”

“That’s not my name.”

My own desk was the last demon to confront, and the one that turned my stomach the most. It bore a tangible record of what I’d allowed myself to become. And of all the souvenirs I’ve collected over the years, I found myself not wanting to keep a single one of them. All I wanted was the book that Bubba gave me. I took it and left and I didn’t look back. Salt the earth so nothing grows in my place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a YouTube video promoting a Mad Max reunion, Charlie's actor (John Ley) stated that his character's surname is McKidd. Although Roop doesn't have a canon full name, my headcanon name for him is Rafael Navarro. There's a whole 'nother story behind that, and if you want a nice Easter egg, check out the meaning/lore behind the name Rafael. It'll give you an idea of where things are headed. ;)
> 
> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Let me know what you liked and what you didn't, and what stood out to you. Thank you for reading!


	8. The Rebel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the MFP in his rearview mirror, Roop can breathe a sigh of relief – but he soon finds himself seeking direction in life.

Didn’t bother taking a single look back at the Halls of Justice. I just hit the gas and hurdled myself into the promised land of not-death. This newfound radical freedom coursed through my veins and electrified my muscles; it burned away the burden of the badge and carried it off like smoke in the wind. From the ashes that remained, maybe something better could grow; something that wasn’t rooted in fear, hate and a philosophy that turns men into murderers, and murderers into arbiters of justice.

As soon as I got home, I told mum. She smiled and took me into her arms, swaying gently. Her arms couldn’t quite wrap around me, and her head barely reached my chest; still, she pressed her ear against my heart, perhaps taking comfort in the idea that it would keep beating for much, much longer. I know I did.

My breath stilled. Oh, the incredible lightness of it.

I wasted no time washing the death-stench from my body and resigning that uniform to a box, far from sight. Every part of it repulsed me, from its smell of stale sweat to the tacky, dust-grabbing engine grease spattered across it. God, part of me wanted to take a match and give it a Viking’s sendoff. The rest of me thought that would be dishonest; no matter how much evidence I destroyed, I’d carry my crimes within me. And those didn’t need to be hidden away, out of sight, out of mind. No, they needed to be unpacked, aired, and washed clean before they could be put to rest.

Fortunately, a jacket can be thrown into the washing machine. It takes a little more to scrub down your soul.

As I watched the jacket disappear into the sudsy water, it struck me that this was the end of an era that had defined the last three years of my life. Going forward, I was no longer 3582, or Roop, or Officer Navarro. I could be _me_ again, Rafael. You know, the disgrace; the boy who drew pictures, cried for kangaroos, and saved mice. It was a homecoming of sorts, I guess – A homecoming to a cold, dusty box. Hell, I don’t know if Rafael’s still here, or if he was one of the many casualties of my wrath. And if Rafael is gone, who am I now?

That question lingered with me, even as I lay in my bed. By all rights, I should’ve been at peace. I’d quit the MFP, I’d put my past behind me, and I’d resolved within myself to no longer inflict suffering. And goddamn, I could close my eyes without tensing up, anticipating the alarm rattling me awake.

Yet I felt like I existed in the margins, floating in the space between places. Hell, even if you’re in freefall, you’ve got a direction. My inner lost dog found it unsettling, not having my hours and minutes managed by some old man in a tower. It seemed there was something nagging, something _unfinished,_ and it stared at me from across the room, peeking out from my messenger bag.

It was the last book Bubba had lent me. No, not the last one he lent; it was the only one he let me keep. Nearly weightless in my hands, it was a humble paperback, with edges soft from age. I ran my fingertips across its cover, textured with creases and the dry leftover glue from a peeled-off price sticker.

Bold red letters adorned the cover: _The Rebel: An essay on man in revolt,_ by Albert Camus.

I rolled back on to my bed, cradled in the groove my body had worn in the mattress.

When I opened the cover, I was greeted by the earthy, vanilla scent of an old book, a hit of nostalgia welcoming me back to the life I once loved.

As my eyes scanned the pages, my imagination lent Bubba’s cadence to Camus’ words; it was comforting, like I was back in that loud, smoky bar, tucked away in a corner, unraveling the ties that bound us to norms that kept us down and eroded our souls.

It was a straightforward read, really. What is a rebel?

Rebellion is an affirmation of life, that a great, big _something_ is worth fighting for, even when you’ve gotta go through hell to get there.

And it’s bigger than just affirming your own life. Rebellion is rejecting what the world has decided to call “justice.” It’s realizing that having authority doesn’t make you righteous, and taking a stand for people that have been left to rot in the gutter. It’s more than breaking chains, it’s kicking the jailer off his pedestal, and rewriting the law so it’s more than a puppet show to serve the wealthy and well-connected.

Christ, that’s ambitious.

But most of all, rebellion is blasphemy. Oh, I can manage that.

It’s not necessarily blasphemy against God, but against the little-g gods that tell us who we can love, how we should live, and what we’re worth. That’s the best kind of blasphemy – calling bullshit on forces that keep us down. That’s having values. And when you develop your values, you become aware of just how fucked the world is. When that awareness reaches a boiling point, you rebel to break free. And when you’re free, you have a chance to be better – and to help others become better, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Thank you for reading!


	9. Damaged but Unbroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roop's new morals are put to the test when an unexpected visitor shows up at the farm.

Even in pitch black and total silence, my eyes sprung upon just before 5:00 AM. Tension seized me before reality set in – I wasn’t needed anywhere. I didn’t have to clock in or report for a daily briefing. There wasn’t a fatal accident at the railroad crossing in sector 22, and if there was, I wasn’t expected to do anything about it. I wasn’t needed.

_I wasn’t needed._

Trying to process that, I raked my fingers down my face. As I sat up, the book tumbled off my chest. That’s right. I _am_ needed. Maybe not to report for duty, maybe not at the scene of a crash, but all hands on deck were needed to un-fuck this miserable world. But that’s just paralyzingly vague.

So my journey towards a better life began with letting the dog out. She made a beeline for the barn doors, nudging her way inside. 

“What ’cha find?” I asked her. “Possums gettin’ into the barn again?”

When the doors flung open, I laid eyes on a rolled up blanket that wasn’t there yesterday. My dog rushed it, shoving her snout into the folds. As soon as I laid a hand on it, I could tell it wasn’t garbage; it was a human being, a boy no older than me. His curls were matted with sweat and grime; his lips were bitten raw.

Eyes glazed over, his head lolled to the side; yep, he was a marked man.

In silent desperation, he had wrapped himself in a stained, moth-eaten blue blanket that’s seen this all before. One of his legs came to an abrupt end; upon his ankle, a scarf-turned-tourniquet fought a losing battle to keep death at bay. He bled out on the dirt, in the corner of a dusty old barn, hidden from light, hidden from sight. 

But short, sharp breaths still racked his chest. And just like that, I was needed again.

I knew who was responsible for his miserable condition; they called him the MFP’s finest. He was the best – everyone knew it from the scoreboard. Max was in first place. I was in second, and hated it. Now, I hate it for a different reason. If that’s how we measure worth, then the plague and malaria are the greatest among us. I don’t want to be great anymore. Good is good enough.

Still, he clung to consciousness, even flinched when I drew near. As I studied him, he edged back, as if two centimeters of distance would make the difference between life and death.

Somehow, he found the energy to speak. “I know who you are, Bronze!” He shook his finger with the conviction of a hanging judge. “You’re the scag hunter!”

“I was.” There were no words to rebuff him, he was _right._ We’d both seen it firsthand, from different sides of the fence; now, the fence was gone.

And though I couldn’t understand half of what came spilling out of his delirious mind, what I could comprehend, I didn’t expect.

“Don’t kill me, man!” He shrieked, curled up tight.

Not _fuck you, Bronze._ There wasn’t hate, there wasn’t bravado. Not bile, not vitriol, not an empty threat. Funny thing is, I wouldn’t have blamed him for hating me. “My kind” had just massacred “his kind” on principal and mutilated him, too. If he wanted my blood, I wouldn’t have blamed him. Hell, at this point, he deserves it.

Standing above him, I watched him gasp and spasm, fading with every labored breath. As he pleaded, it struck me that some might call him weak, pathetic, or at best, pitiable. And there was a time I would’ve agreed.

His world was falling apart around him, and everyone he knew was taken from him, and yet he’s pressed on. God only knows what else he’s lost, or never had. But even with his back against the wall, this mangled heap of a boy just stared death in the face and said _no._

I had no reason to oblige him; Hell, I had choices. I could take a shovel off the wall and end him. If I were simply to turn right around and go back to bed, it would be effectively the same as putting a bullet in his brain. Some would argue that a bullet would be more merciful. And yet, my hand was stayed – because freedom is a chance to do better.

There was no way of knowing what led him to bear the Armalite’s mark, or what sparked his rebellion against the little-g gods of society. If I could forgive myself for the monstrous views I’ve held and the horrible things I’ve done, it only seemed fair to extend him the courtesy, too.

He twitched like a marionette. “Oh God, don’t hurt me. I’m sick, man. The doctors, they called it… It… They gave me needles.”

Though I had no goddamn clue as to what he was talking about, I nodding in understanding because _maybe_ he’d find some solace in that. When I knelt down beside him, only then did I notice how much he was trembling. And when I reached out, he didn’t pull back. Maybe he was just too weak, maybe he knew I was his only shot at survival; maybe, just maybe, he trusted me.

Without a second thought, I scooped him into my arms. Short, shallow breaths wracked his featherweight body, slowing only as I held him near. In that moment, I felt stronger than hatred ever let me feel. Little Rafael was alive again, ready to save a life that the world had dismissed as vermin

Stay with me, little mouse. You’re braver than you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Thank you for reading!


	10. Nether Victims nor Executioners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roop realizes that sometimes bloodshed is the right answer.

I’m smart enough to know that I’m too dumb to handle this on my own.

As soon as we breached the doors of St. George’s hospital, a swarm of doctors and nurses ripped him from my arms. When they pulled him away, he reached out towards me. And yeah, as they wheeled him off, I kept pace, never letting his cold hand go.

Voices volleyed across the hall faster than I could keep track. They held him down, shined a torch in his eyes. Some Sheila pushed past me and shoved oxygen tubes up his nose; that was all it took to throw me off kilter. Overwhelmed by people shoving into me, shouting orders, rattling carts of surgical instruments, blazing light, and the stinging scent of rubbing alcohol, I let slip his hand. He never took his eyes off me, and beneath my breath, I apologized.

A masked one got busy unwrapping his leg stump; it was glimmering wet and flecked with black and flies. Beneath the dirt was jagged bone and shredded flesh. The muscles in my own ankle seized. Before, I understood it cerebrally, but only then did I feel the full brunt of his will to live.

Blood had tarnished most of his once-white scarf; nurses cut it away, and of all the poking and prodding, that seemed to hurt him the most.

“Sir, what’s your blood type?”

The boy twitched like a dying chicken, and screamed just the same. “It wasn’t what I wanted!”

“Sir, _what is your blood type?_ ”

“I thought he looked silly, upside-down like that!” Jaw pulled tight, he ripped at his hair.

My eyes darted between them.

The nurse shouted from across the room, “Card in his wallet says ‘O-negative.’”

“Shit.”

“I’m a universal donor.” I spoke without a second thought. “Use me.”

Before I could process an answer, I was rushed off to wait in a room that smelled of antiseptic and polished steel. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the needle pierce my skin, but as I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw, it felt like nothing more than a pinch. So there I sat, taking part in the most hopeful kind of bloodshed.

The nurse gave me a red sponge ball to squeeze; she looked familiar somehow.

“…You two known each other for a long time?” She asked.

Felt like she was implying something. “…He’s a friend of a friend.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” A lull of silence passed, and I almost settled into a thought before she spoke again.

“Say, aren’t you the fella that came in here to visit Jessie? Jessie Rockatansky?”

I nodded. “How’s she?”

“Still asking about her husband.” She stomped the footpedal on the bin and flicked away the bandage wrapper. “Poor girl tries not to cry in front of us. But the walls are thin, y’know?”

My fist clenched; my chewed nails dug into that red foam ball. There’s a lot suffering in this world; a whole lot of grief. Look, I can’t fix all of it. I know that. If I tell myself I can, I’ll let myself down every time. But you know what? That doesn’t mean I can walk away. Oh God, no. While there’s only so much I can do at once, there _are_ still victories to be won, whether that’s saving one life or a thousand. And as that blood bag filled, victory drew nearer.

“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of that deadbeat husband.” She scoffed. “Not so much as a phone call.”

That was something I couldn’t comprehend. Was Max even still alive? And what could have possessed him to do this? Didn’t he see what was going to happen?

  
_Take a deep breath; don’t judge. You’ve been there, Rafael._

Hate is like itching a rash. You know nothing good comes of it, but it feels _so goddamn good._ Especially when you feel like you have a reason; a real, provable, screaming, bleeding reason for it. But as long as you keep on doing it, you can’t heal.

Fixating on a dent in the speckled concrete wall, I wondered where his family was, and what led him to the Toecutter’s gang. And with his blood like mine, part of me wanted to ask if that boy’s parents struggled through pain and loss trying to bring him into this world, just as my mum did for me. Perhaps it’s that spark of determination that keeps us going; what drives us to protect this gift of life, no matter what. Maybe, at times, it took us places we shouldn’t have gone. We can’t go back and change what we’ve done. But you know what? Tomorrow’s spotless. This doesn’t have to be what defines the rest of our lives.

Soon enough, the boy and I were reunited. Above him hung a bag of blood, _my blood,_ feeding the veins of a marked man. I stood, shoulders tense, breath held tight. As I was living it, every decision came without question; I saw nothing strange about it. Maybe he did; his groggy eyes saw the bandage in the crook of my elbow, then traced the plastic tube from his own arm to the bag above. With parted lips and sputtering breath, he searched for words.

He stirred in his cot. “It wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t what we agreed upon.”

“What wasn’t?" 

“The Goose. What… Happened to the Goose.”

Oh. I nodded in slack-jawed understanding. 

“What is it, Bronze?” He gazed right past me. “You gonna save my life so you can throw me in the hole? Let me live so I can rot?”

“…I’m not gonna take you to jail." 

“Why not? Yeah? Then why’d you bring me here?” Desperately searching my face for answers, he struggled to sit up, to lean in. “Why not end it back at the barn, Bronze?”

“’Cause the world needs more than victims and executioners.”

I took a seat beside him and offered my hand. For a long, lingering time, I felt like goddamn fool. I almost pulled back my hand, wanting to forget it ever happened; but he took it. His palms were clammy and his fingers seemed to sap the heat from my own. Without a second thought, I clasped his hand between my palms, trying my best to offer whatever warmth I could.

“What’s your angle?” He asked. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing." 

“But aren’t you the scag hunter?”

My attention was drawn to the phi on his neck, still charcoal-black and raised from tattooing. I fought to look past it, and our eyes finally met. “My name’s Rafael. That’s my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story, kudos are appreciated! I would love to hear absolutely any of your thoughts in the comments below. Let me know what you liked and what you didn't, and what stood out to you. I can't thank you enough for coming with me on this journey.


End file.
